


Tea for Two

by Donna_Immaculata



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:49:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day Peter Pettigrew was Kissed, Severus Snape got drunk for the first time in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea for Two

**Author's Note:**

> Written before HBP for the Snape Flashfiction Challenge, as a response to the pairing Snape/Percy and including tea, a comb and a minor disagreement.

The day Peter Pettigrew was Kissed, Severus Snape got drunk for the first time in his life.

For once, the loss of control over his actions and the blissful oblivion of a clouded mind seemed more than desirable. He had known the moment he testified that Pettigrew was a Death Eater, by elaborating the meaning of the Dark Mark on the man’s forearm, that his days as teacher at Hogwarts school were coming to an end. The new headmaster might be liberal enough, but after Albus’ death no-one would trust a former Death Eater, though reformed.

He had left the courtroom - which also served as execution room, because the Ministry wanted to soothe the apprehension of the wizarding community by demonstrating publicly that all captured Death Eaters were indeed executed on the spot - before the Kiss had been performed, reckoning that he had seen enough destruction to last him a lifetime. Although Knockturn Alley seemed like a tempting alternative for a wizard badly in need of forgetting, he decided against it and, ignoring the looks passing Muggles gave him as he strode among them in his long billowing cloak and official wizard robe, headed for a small pub squashed between an Indian takeaway and a second-hand bookstore in a Muggle street. There, he began to methodically down one whisky after the other and just as methodically curse every man, woman and child that had the misfortune of having ever crossed his path, splashing large quantities of liquor in the process, until the wizened little bartender pulled him by the scruff of his neck and forced him bodily out of the pub. Snape cursed the bartender and all his kin, grabbing blindly for support as he was hauled across the dingy room to the back door. His hand, dragging through the remainders of various drinks spilled on the counter, made contact with something soft and fluffy and, instinctively, he closed his fingers around it, tugging sharply.

"Ouch!" came the muffled voice from somewhere in the vicinity of his fist, and Snape turned his head gingerly to the source of the sound. He saw a flash of red and a pale oval that could have been a face if only it hadn’t been so blurry, before the bartender kicked open the door and the sudden impact of cool air and oxygen hit Snape’s lungs and brain and knocked him out as effectively as a fist in the face could have done.

He came to to a sharp pounding noise and a swirl of bright colours. His nose was blocked and his mouth was open and full of something woolly and foul-tasting. Choking slightly, Snape turned his head to the other side to establish who was making this infernal racket and how best to hex them without having to move. The sofa underneath him wobbled and he clenched his fists tightly in the soft cushions to stop himself from sliding to the ground. A small, cramped room came into focus, which, strangely enough, seemed to be spinning around him. Was it enchanted? But who would enchant a room in a way that was bound to make one sick?

"Nngh?" said Snape carefully. There was something wrong with his tongue. Someone had hexed it to swell to twice its size and develop a furry coating. He lifted his arm which was dangling heavily from the edge of the sofa and pushed a strand of hair off his face.  
"Ah. You’re awake, Professor," said a voice smartly from somewhere behind him. In the next moment, a pair of legs came into view and to a halt right in front of his face. With great difficulty, Snape lifted his head a few inches - and let it fall back onto the cushion.

"Whatdidyoudotome?" he slurred hoarsely. "Ishallmakeyouregret." He realised that the threat wasn’t quite as effective when given by a person lying on their front on a sofa, their eyes crusted and their mouths full of dead mice, but his instinct prompted him to attack first and think later.

"I didn’t do anything to you, sir," said the voice, whose indignant tone began to sound vaguely familiar. Unfortunately, the face was too far away to get into focus. "I have, in fact, given you shelter for the night, as you seemed unable to take care of yourself."

A glass appeared in front of Snape’s face filled with what looked like clear water. He grabbed it with an unsteady hand and, sniffing carefully, established that he could risk it. He hadn’t realised just how thirsty he was.

"What happened? To me?" he croaked, slightly more smoothly, after downing the water in one go. A pale, freckled hand appeared in his line of vision and snatched the glass away.

"’I’m afraid you got drunk, Professor," said the voice in a stiff tone as though mentioning an indecency. "But if you allow, I will help you get better in a minute."

"Who is making this horrible noise? Go and hex them into silence!" groaned Snape, hiding his face in the cushions.

"There is no noise, Professor. I think it must be the influence of the liquor that puts you under such disillusion." The voice sounded more distant now, and Snape wished it to come back and bring more water. After a short while, he heard soft footsteps padding towards him and a cup was pressed into his hand. "If you want to drink this - it is a potion to cure a hangover." There was definitely embarrassment on the voice now. Clearly, in the man’s eyes alcoholic excesses were something not to be talked of.

He turned his head to the side and, spilling half of the drink, managed to swallow enough to make him feel better in an instant. The horrible pounding in his head stopped and his tongue was deflated and defurred, and the man’s face came into focus so suddenly as though he had moved towards Snape with the speed of a lowland fairy. Snape’s eyes narrowed with disgust.

"Weasley!"

"Yes, Professor," said Percy Weasley, former Hogwarts Head Boy and insufferably pompous scion of that insufferably Muggle-loving Arthur Weasley. "You are feeling better, I take it?"

Snape rolled off the sofa and straightened up in front of Weasley. Unfortunately, he realised that the other man had apparently grown a few inches since he had last taught him and that he himself was wearing neither his impressive robes nor his shoes and that he was standing eye to eye with his former student - who at least had the decency to take a step back.

"Why did you bring me here, Weasley?" Snape hissed, relishing how smoothly the syllables rolled off his tongue. "And where is my wand?"

Weasley’s chest swelled visibly as the man pulled himself up to his full height. "You were drunk and unable take care of yourself," he repeated. "I thought it my duty to save you from the alternative, which was spending the night in the gutter. Your wand is here, untouched." he indicated a low table littered with scrolls of parchment.

"What makes you think I was unable to take care of myself?" snarled Snape, increasingly confidently now that his wand was within reach.

"Well, sir, you were pulling my hair and muttering curses against the Ministry," said Weasley, lowering his voice to a mutter as though afraid he might be overheard. Snape froze.

"I was what?"

"Cursing the Ministry. And with all due respect, sir, I have to point out that, although the Ministry might err in minor matters, the institution of the Ministry of Magic is the basic foundation of the wizarding society in Britain."

"What do you mean, pulling your hair?" Snape repeated, ignoring Weasley’s lecture on the foundation of the wizarding society.

"You grabbed a handful of my hair and tugged it," said Weasley very stiffly.

"Why on earth should I have done such a thing?"

"Well, sir, you were drunk and-"

"Very well, very well! So I was!" snapped Snape. "That is no reason to drag me into this... den!"

Weasley took another step back. "I couldn’t very well leave you lying in the gutter, sir! A Muggle could have stumbled over you! And according to paragraph 13 b (ii) of the Guide to Wizard-Muggle Interrelations, no witch or wizard must be found by Muggles in an incriminating and/or helpless position. What would become of the Secrecy Act if we allowed the Muggle law enforcement - please, I think they’re called - unable to conceal our identity and our wands?"

"Very well!" snapped Snape again. "You are excused! No need to bore me with tedious details on Ministry rules!" Weasley froze with horror.

"I will not allow you to speak about the Ministry in such a manner-" he began but was cut short by Snape.

"For heaven’s sake, hold your tongue, Weasley! Better fetch me my robes so I can leave this... place as soon as possible."

"I’m afraid this is not possible," said Weasley with something like regret in his voice. "Your robes are currently being laundered. They were stained with liquor and mud and... other substances," he added defiantly. "They were not fit to be worn by any respectable wizard.

Snape took a deep breath to steady himself. "Where is the kitchen in this place?" he asked, his lip curling. "As I have to spend time here, I believe it wouldn’t be expecting too much if I required a cup of coffee."

"This way, sir." Weasley indicated the door to his right and followed Snape out of the room. "I’m afraid I haven’t got any coffee, however. But there is tea."

"Tea!" Sneering, Snape looked around the tiny kitchen. "Very well, Weasley, if this is the best you can offer. I shall have a cup of tea, then."

Weasley busied himself with the preparations, and after watching him for several minutes, during which time Weasley’s ears turned redder and redder, Snape inquired after the bathroom. The room was, if possible, even smaller than the kitchen; he had to squeeze himself between the old-fashioned sink and the sharp edge of a low shelf, and then his gaze fell onto the mirror, which gave a soft wince that sent its countless blotches a-shudder.

"What is the matter?" Snape snarled, more out of habit, however, because his reflection showed all too clearly what the matter was. His usually pale face had assumed the colour of the underbelly of a toad, his eyes were sunken and bloodshot, his lips were a nasty shade of purple, and his lanky hair stuck out at odd angles, mussed up at one side and flattened to his skull at the other. Snape cursed harshly.

Having brushed his teeth with a toothbrush he conjured up with a shaky hand, he considered vaguely having a shower, but the sight of the mossy green spots lurking in the corners of the shower tray was more appalling than the view of having to endure the discomfort of his own sweat. There was a dark stain on his shirtfront, however, which he didn’t want to examine more closely. He unbuttoned his shirt with two fingers and tossed it to the ground. Let Weasley deal with it; it wasn’t as though he would put on this shirt ever again.

Eyeing all articles on the shelf warily, Snape pointed his wand at one of Weasley’s combs and muttered "Scourgify," before using it to disentangle his hair which had taken to look like Black’s at his very worst. That association was more than enough to catapult him in a very foul mood, and he returned to the kitchen fuming inwardly. He still felt vaguely sick and his vest stuck to his body in a manner that made his skin itch.

"Is the tea ready yet, Weasley?" he said in the tone of voice that had successfully served to make generations of students blanch and flinch. Weasley had been no exception, and Snape’s mood improved a little when he saw the old instinct kick in. The hand that handed him the tea cup was shaking slightly and the tips of Weasley’s ears were still rather pink. He took a slow sip, Weasley watching his every move with nervous anticipation. "Hmm..."

"Sir?" The man was standing almost to attention.

"We-ell..." said Snape, taking another sip, letting the hot liquid roll over his tongue. "Not _quite_ the standard I am used to, but it’ll do, Weasley." It was almost amusing how Weasley’s shoulders relaxed as he let out a breath of relief. One might think he was expecting to be receiving - or losing - house points for his tea making abilities.

"Please, take a seat, sir," Weasley indicated a dilapidated chair squashed into the corner between the table and the window. "I’m afraid I can’t offer you a full breakfast, but there is some toast, and the eggs might still be good."

Snape regarded Weasley coolly down his nose and watched in satisfaction as the other man’s ears turned pink again while he busied himself with the breakfast. Neither of them spoke, and Snape caught himself rubbing his left forearm absentmindedly, which was prickling uncomfortably. When Weasley’s gaze fell on him, he let go as though burned.

"What were you doing in that pub last night, Weasley?" he sneered to cover his momentary embarrassment. "I wouldn’t expect the Junior Assistant to the Minister to be found in places like that."

"I-" the man broke off, patches of pink blossoming on his face. "This is sort of personal, sir."

Snape raised one eyebrow. "Far be it from me to inquire after _personal_ issues of my former students." He tapped his fingers on the tabletop, surveying the worn but clean and neatly plated tablecloth, the chipped mugs and the stack of dull looking books piled up at the far end of the table. Weasley had turned his back on him, fumbling with the eggs in the frying pan, which was hissing like a mad cat and spitting hot oil. "What do you think you’re doing, boy?" snapped Snape, seeing his breakfast go. "Turn the heat down, for Merlin’s sake!" He stood up and approached Weasley, this time managing to loom over the man as Weasley was cowering guiltily. "Better you let me do this. See to the toast!"

"You can cook, sir?" Weasley rummaged in a small cupboard from which he produced a neatly knotted bag holding toast, and began to roast a couple of slices over the fire.

"It is simply a matter of adding the correct ingredients at the correct point of time under the correct temperature conditions," said Snape, carefully selecting a spoonful of herbs. "Not unlike potion brewing. - Not that I could ever accuse any of your family to understand _that_ subtle art."

Weasley’s chest swelled with indignation. "I received my Potions NEWTs, sir," he said. "And so did Bill!"

Snape’s lip curled up unpleasantly. "The eggs are ready," he announced, flipping them onto two plates which he had warmed up with a flick of his wand and pushing one plate towards Weasley. "Is there any more tea?"

"Are you going to the trial today, Professor?" asked Weasley a few minutes later, looking up at Snape over the rim of his glass. His plate was already sparkling clean; he had gathered the remainders of the yolk with the crust of his toast.

"I didn’t know that was any of your business!" Snape pushed his plate away, suddenly no longer hungry.

"My apologies, sir. I didn’t mean to pry. I was merely attempting to make conversation," Weasley said, putting down his steaming mug. Snape rubbed his forearm again, under the table to hide it from view. It was itching slightly. For a brief moment, he wished he had let on his shirt, but then he remembered the stain on its front and shuddered in disgust. Weasley was watching him across the table. Snape glared at him, and the man cringed.

"I thought you might have been called for witness in more trials than one." He had taken to play with his fork nervously, avoiding Snape’s eyes and ploughing on desperately. "I know that you testified in," he choked slightly, "Pettigrew’s trial. He was your friend at school, wasn’t he?"

"No!" spat Snape, his pulse pounding in his temples. "He wasn’t! What makes you think he was?"

"I thought, sir - I heard you were at school together, and that you knew him well." Weasley was sinking down in his chair as though attempting to escape Snape’s rage by sliding under the table. "Professor Lupin mentioned it once-"

"Lupin!" Snape snarled, banging his fist on the table so that his cutlery jumped with a clatter. "That meddling liar! You better not listen to one word Lupin says!"

"I wouldn’t call Professor Lupin a liar. He was a very decent teacher, before his, um, condition was known-"

"Goddamn werewolf!" Snape raged, completely ignoring Weasley’s interjection. "He and the rotten mutt and that traitorous rat and... _Potter_!"

"He was my friend." Weasley said, his voice almost bordering on desperation, as Snape continued his tirade, spitting with fury. By the sound of Weasley’s words, Snape stopped dead. His eyes narrowed.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he demanded.

"Scabbers," said Weasley, looking down at his freckled hands. "Or P...Pettigrew, rather." He was looking oddly young, his eyes huge behind the horn-rimmed glasses. "He used to be my pet." He made a sudden noise, somewhere between a sob and a snort, and got up to his feet, turning to the stove and gripping for the kettle with shaking hands. "I let him sleep in my bed!"

A narrow beam of sunlight fell on the table, almost but not quite reaching Snape’s pale hand, its knuckles white as he clenched it into a tight fist. Under his skin, the Dark Mark was throbbing uncomfortably.

"You pathetic personal history holds no interest for me," he said. "You are hardly the first one to have ever experienced a disappointment in your," the pause was almost imperceptible, "friends. And certainly not the first one to be fooled by Pettigrew into trusting him."

"I couldn’t know he was an Animagus. An illegal one!" Weasley didn’t appear to be listening. "I would have most certainly have informed the Ministry had I ever had the shadow of a suspicion!" The tea can slipped from his hand and fell to the floor with a loud clatter. Tea leaves littered the rough wooden boards.

"As to this, I’ve got no doubt." Snape left his position at the table and pushed past Weasley, who was standing in the middle of the cramped kitchen, looking somewhat lost. "I will be leaving now. Fetch my robes, Weasley."

Weasley didn’t move. His head bowed slightly, he remained perfectly still, and when Snape hissed impatiently and tapped his wand against the wooden doorframe to attract Weasley’s attention, the man whirled around and faced him, looking pale yet determined.

"Have you ever seen your trust betrayed so much it hurt you to breathe only thinking about it?"

Snape snorted. "You must be joking, Weasley." He breathed in deeply and - started to laugh. Weasley opened his mouth in surprised shock, and closed it again as words failed him. Shaken by helpless, mirthless laughter, Snape pushed himself off the door frame and stumbled into the living room, where he let himself drop to the sofa. He hid his face in a trembling hand, his body still shaking with aftershocks, and remained sitting still for a while. Weasley knew better than to disturb him. After a few minutes Snape flicked his wand to wipe the table in front of him clean and conjured up a box of cigarettes. He lit one with his wand, leaned back and put his feet on the table, crossing them neatly at the ankles. Tea leaves flaked off the soles of his feet.

When Weasley poked in his head a few minutes later to announce that Snape’s robes were clean and dry, his face and voice were back to their usual officiousness. Snape dressed in silence. His waistcoat, made of thick, heavy fabric, was rough on his irritated skin. Nevertheless, it was a relief being able to put on his clothes, although the realisation that Weasley had lost one of his socks - that he had _taken off_ his socks in the first place - annoyed him to no end. Blushing furiously, his eyes averted, the young man handed him a pair of crudely knitted woollen socks, muttering that they were from his mother. Cursing the whole clan to hell, Snape put on a pair of Weasley socks which clung snugly to his feet.

Just as the rest of the small flat, the hall was filled with stacks of books. Snape pulled his cloak around himself, relishing the security provided by several layers of clothing, and Weasley extended his hand.

"Goodbye, Professor," he said earnestly. "I’m sure we will meet again soon."

"What do you mean?" Snape let go of the hand he had automatically shaken and looked the other man square in the eyes.

"I mean, at court," spluttered Weasley. "Surely, there will be more trials, won’t there? Now that they have started catching You-Know-Who’s supporters." And, faltering under Snape’s cold gaze, he added, "I didn’t mean - not that... other place."

"Not that other place?" Snape repeated. He took one step closer. "Tell me, Weasley, why did you take me home with you?"

Weasley’s eyes darted across the hall as though the man was looking for a place to hide. "I told you, you were drunk and-"

"And are you in the habit of... taking drunken men home with you, Weasley?" Snape took another step forward and felt Weasley’s breath hitch. "My, my - if only your mother knew."

"No!" Weasley shouted. "No! I don’t! I- never!"

"Never?" Snape raised one eyebrow in surprised amusement. "Hmm... Why were you there, then?"

The man merely shook his head, flattening himself against the wall as Snape advanced further with a soft swish of his cloak.

"Looking for adventures, Weasley?" he purred silkily. "Want to, ah, expand your horizons?" He pressed his palm against the cold wall, beside Weasley’s arm. "Is this what you were looking for?" he breathed.

A thin mewling sound escaped Weasley’s throat as Snape’s lips parted over his. Tilting his head slightly, Snape exhaled deliberately into the other man’s mouth and was rewarded by another keening moan. In the next moment, Weasley shuddered and groaned hotly as Snape slid his tongue along the man’s upper lip and into his mouth. Snape curled his tongue around Weasley’s, sucked it harshly into his mouth, and then, he bit down on the slick muscle. Weasley gave a wordless cry that reverberated through Snape’s mouth, who pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Is this what you want, then?" he asked the panting, wide-eyed Weasley again, whose whole body was quivering against the wall. As the man nodded wordlessly, his eyes darted to Snape’s mouth and he licked his lips with a nervous flick of his tongue. Snape traced his own mouth with one finger, regarding Weasley coolly.

"Be careful what you ask for, boy," he said in a low voice. "It might be granted."

"Please," Weasley whispered hoarsely. "Please?"

His mouth opened long before Snape’s lips touched it, and as Snape dragged his teeth over the man’s lower lip, pulling and twisting the tender flesh, Weasley hissed and arched in desperate pleasure-pain. Heat rose between their bodies as Weasley thrust his groin against Snape’s, seeking friction, and Snape barely suppressed a groan that threatened to rise up from deep in his throat. He gripped Weasley’s shoulders firmly and pulled back, licking the corner of his mouth. Weasley stared at him from wide eyes. Snape smirked.

"Oh," whispered Weasley. "Oh."

" _Is_ that what you want?" Snape repeated in a very low voice that vibrated in the air between them. "Think before you answer."

"Yess..." Weasley breathed. "Oh. Yes!"

The fingers of Snape’s left hand entangled themselves in Weasley’s hair, pulling gently. "In that case, I believe we will meet again soon." With a swirl of his cloak, he whirled around and threw open the door. "Tonight, at The Stag and Fairy. Nine o’clock sharp." He stepped out into the staircase. "Don’t be late, Weasley."

**Author's Note:**

> Followed by [The Ghosts that I Called](http://archiveofourown.org/works/306102)


End file.
